


A CAVE OF DRAGONS

by Queenoftheuniverse



Category: Sherlock (TV), game of thrones
Genre: Bare knuckle fighting, Big birds, Game of Thrones 'verse, M/M, Magic, Mentions of Prostitution, Violence, frozen zombies, horsies, myths, offscreen death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:57:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1743857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenoftheuniverse/pseuds/Queenoftheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, Watts son, is a member of the Black Watch, a Warg and a "Sword Swallower",a blight on his family but happy enough to serve on The Wall. As if he had a choice...</p><p>Sherlock and Mycroft are the bastard sons of King Sigur Baratheon. Mycroft, traumatised to mutism from the cruel death of his betrothed, is guarded day and night by his highly gifted younger true blood brother Sherlock. </p><p>Just three of the many chess pieces in this Game of Thrones. </p><p>See what I did there?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Weeping Wall

**Author's Note:**

> I am new to the Game of Thrones fandom. I am NOT George R R Martin and do not claim to be. I am just borrowing his 'verse for shits and gigs. 
> 
> I have fiddled aboot with the Moffat/Gatiss Sherlock fandom for years. They already know I am not stealing from them as we are close personal Facebook friends. YEAH they admin their own site...what are you intimating!!?? Don't make me slap you!

John, son of Watt, had been on The Wall all day, and all day the wall had wept. 

The sun had been strong, as it had been more days than not in his time in the Black Watch, but it was said that Winter was coming. John was sceptical. This summer had lasted years, who was to say it would not last years more? John could barely remember the last winter, he had been a small boy then, and had been at hearth in the castle of his father, warm rooms and feather beds. Who recalled the cold when one was so warm? That and the meat was all the fondness John could recall of his time in his fathers castle. The rest was harshness and criticism and the pain of beatings administered "for his own good". He was told to stop daydreaming, concentrate on his swordsmanship, because one day he would be a Kingsguard, like his father and his father before him.

But John could not stop his daydreams. He wished he could but he never knew when suddenly he would leave the world and fly in the sky, looking down on it from above. He knew he was a bird, he could feel the feathers in the wind, see the mouse in the field, and screech like a hawk. But he was human, and still on the ground too. It was scary and confusing and he wished he would not do it. He was determined not to, and then, without warning, he was once again flying, wind under his wings and the sun on his back.

In the very beginning, when he had been very small, his sister Hari had defended him. But then she, too, saw his blights and refused to come to his aid when their father ordered another beating for some crime or another. John could barely remember the rules when his head was clear, but when he was flying inside his eyes he became more fuddled still, until one day his mother had demanded their father send him to the Wall, to the Black Watch before he was set on fire for being a sorcerer. The fact he was also a sword swallower and caught in the hay with the stable boy was a lesser evil compared to the fearful threat of magic.

None of his Brothers of the Watch knew why he was there, which was rather the point of the Black Watch. Sins forgiven, new chances to be had, honour of defending Westeros blah blah blah. John knew it for what it was: A clearing house for families and their shameful secrets.

Still, there was food and warmth and the very nicest of leather clothes, boots, and the fur capes were the warmest in all of Westeros. They had to be. One could freeze to death on top of the Wall when the wind was up and the night was dark.

As the sun sunk on the day John heard his relief huffing behind him. John stoked the brazier for his friend, and warmed his gloved hands over the resultant flames.

"Here, John." 

A warm cup of ale was pushed into his hands and John took it greatfully.

"I thank you Oliver." John said. Oliver had been on the wall for nearly as long as John. Must have been going on two years now, John mused. He was a young blonde fellow of jovial stories, a quick wit and good for a quick seeing to under the blankets. The Watch were forbidden wives and children, but seeking comfort in each other was a tacit secret.

"What saw you today?"

"Snow, Oliver. Snow and trees."

"It is lucky you are here to protect us, Eyes In The Skies, or we should surely have all been killed."

John grinned. Here, his blight, his flying inside his eyes, was encouraged and revered. It even had a name, was a real thing that others had been given throughout the history of Westeros. He was called Warg and it was a very fine gift to have for a Man on the Wall to have, even if it were only flying animals John could enter.

"I did see a particularly violent flurry about mid morning, but then the wind dropped and all was once again safe."

"Thank the Old Gods." 

They both snickered and sipped the ale. John was tired and wanted to go down for a meal and a warm hearth but Oliver was a dear friend. It was not often on got to speak without others around. Sometimes a man needed that.

"Have you ever seen them?" Oliver asked then. No need to expand on what. 

"A White Walker? No." John said, shaking his head.

"Not even when you were flying?"

"Not ever. I sometimes think we are told they exist as a lie to keep us up here, keep us busy, stop us running off into the Wilds." John said. "But when I listen to those that have seen them..." He shuddered. "I pray I will never see any. Ever."

"I saw a dead one once. I mean, an actually dead one, not a...you know..." Oliver said. John nodded. "It was the most terrible thing I ever saw. Flesh torn from its arms, eyes all out of his skull...not natural John. Not natural...and had it been walking I think I would have shit my leathers."

"Aye, any excuse." John said, grinning into his cup. Oliver was just about to knock the drink from John's hand when Mikehail from the Day Watch called up from below:

"I'll eat your meat if you are not down here in a minute John WattSon!"

"Ah, my maid calls me." John said with a straight face, draining the ale and shoving the cup into Oliver's chest. "I shall withdraw to my scented bath. Be well, my friend."

"Be well, John." Oliver said in a low voice that was filled with dark promise. Johns belly flipped and warmed but he did nothing but wink at the handsome man, before grabbing the ladder with both his gloved hands and descending below, out of the snow.

Mikehail shoved over the bench seat and made room for John. John flipped the snow covered hood of his cloak from his head and removed his gloves before seating himself next to Mikehail and devouring the stew set before him. At his back was a fine fire and soon his belly was full. He drank his fill of ale, rousted with his friends from the Day Watch, indulged in a little bit of swordplay with dummy swords, and then it was time to roll into his bed furs and sleep the night away.

John could not complain about his life. He knew it was the best he could hope for given who he was.

But sometimes, at night, when he was flying, it was not feathers but leathery wings he beat against the air, and it was not the suns heat but heat from his own mouth that warmed him. And below, it was not cold and snow and walking dead things, it was sand and tents and an army so big it covered the ground from sea to horizon. 

And calling to him was a green eyed man of such dark etherial looks that John woke up breathless with the very idea such a beauty existed in the world.

#


	2. THE MUTE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bastard sons of Sigur Baratheon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still doing character development. This is so much fun!

On the surface, it was not hard for Sherlock and his older brother to be the bastard sons of the King, even if ones mother was a Dothraki Woman who had died in childbirth, along with the child. On the surface, Sherlock knew, people would see his fine clothes, his comfortable hearth, his fine made bow, his sumptuous rooms and his magnificent horse, and think it was not all that bad to be a Bastard. On the surface, his life was good.

It was under the surface that it all came undone.

The Queen, wife to King Sigur Baratheon and mother of Sigursund the heir, and four other strapping sons, hated the two Dothraki Bastards with an undisguised passion. She could not confront her husband The King directly about his affair with the Dothraki slut and not risk imprisonment or death, but the two boys sired on a Dothraki Witch she could despise straight to their faces.

Sherlock could deflect any hatred sent his way for he had been blessed with a quick wit and an observant nature. He was also very resilient. His older brother Mycroft, however, was not so fortunate. He was far more clever than Sherlock, and that was saying something, but the foolish boy had dared to fall in love and that had made him vulnerable. A weak spot the Queen had used against Mycroft for no other reason than revenge against her husbands wayward prick.

Mycroft had broken. Not quickly. Not easily. But the Queen had broken Mycroft. When the King had discovered just how damaged his Bastard had been he dismissively made Sherlock his brother's keeper. The Queen had smiled and Sigursund, the rightful heir and as hateful as his mother, had grinned in glee.

Sherlock had once been free to roam the palace, fight with the Kings Guard in the yard, drink with the stable boys, learn at the side of the Royal Tutors and dare to think himself equal with the kings other, pure blood, children. Now he was at Mycroft's side, day and night. Where the broken boy went, Sherlock followed, glued by duty and by Kings Law. The Queen and her children thought it fitting punishment, restricting Sherlocks freedom, and the sour look on his face, the sighing when Mycroft did something particularly difficult or contrary to Sherlock's wishes, certainly made it appear he was suffering.

The opposite was true however. How could keeping his brother safe ever be anything but fullfilling? The fools thought they had him stymied and weak, but rather now he able to keep Mycroft, poor broken Mycroft, safe from the jeers, the violence, the endless chess game that had guided them both before. Instead of taking Sherlocks power they had enhanced it. All he had to do was seem put upon and resigned and limited. It was not a hard thing to playact when one did it for love, and Sherlock had always loved his older brother, even before he had snapped. Maybe more so now he was mute and quiet and distracted from life.

Sherlock hoped one day to get his old Mycroft back but...he was not hopeful. Watching the one you love torn limb from limb, screaming your name as she died, her blood spraying far enough to wet your face and doublet would affect you in an adverse way for a longtime. Maybe....for the rest of your life.

The only time Sherlock felt at ease, not pretending, was in their bed at night and when they went out on the horses, into the Kingswood, just the two of them. 

The bed was obvious, Sherlock could hold Mycroft when he dreamed. It was only in dreams that Mycroft made any noise, and the screams that tore from his throat made Sherlock almost wish for silence again. 

But out on horses, his fine strong Mancer Horse under his thighs, bow across his shoulders, the wood so green and covered, the air crisp and fresh, his brother happy and smiling behind on his own horse...what was not to love? Of course he relaxed then, talking to Mycroft as one would a squire, although truth be told the positions were reversed, indeed, envoys often took Sherlock for Mycrofts squire until told the truth of it. They were the Bastard Sons of Baratheon, and Mycroft was soft in the head.

Mycroft had his Hawk on his shoulder. The Hawk, horses and Sherlock were the only things Mycroft felt safe around. 

The fact of it was it caused much sport for Sigursund and his other four brothers to try and make Mycroft fall to the ground, curled up in foetal position and sob silently. When Sherlock came to Mycrofts defence not one of those little wretches left off their taunting until a tutor or a guard would appear to see what the noise was. Even then, parting words were thoughtless and cutting, and raucous laughter followed the boys as they left. Sherlock always watched them with eyes slitted. There went the future Kings and Princes of Westeros. Sherlock failed to see why a man needed so many sons, it seemed greedy, and every one of them so cruel. 

The Gods help them all once Sigur passed away. He was bad enough but these little gutter sipes, drunk on power and never learning consequences....

No good could come of it. No good at all.

Mycroft sent his Hawk, Squabbles, into the air to hunt. Sherlock watched the magnificent bird climb above the sparse trees here at the start of the wood and smiled. Squabbles was a good bird. 

Ironically Sigur always treated people like chess pieces but the animals of the kingdom were off limits. If anyone, even any of Sigurs sons, interfered deliberately or cruelly with a horse, a hound, a bird, a cat...even a lowly mouse, and Sigur heard of it...Quintion, the son just under Sigur in age, still bore a scar across his face from Sigur's whip the day their father had seen him kick a hound out of the way as he crossed the yard. 

Nobody touched Squabbles or the Bastard's Horses for revenge and for this Sherlock felt greatful. Not safe, no doubt the day would come when someone would try to hurt Squabbles and blame someone else or some such deviousness, but it had not happened yet. None of the Heirs dared be caught even in a plot like that. Later, when the fight for the throne became closer maybe. But not yet. Not now.

Sherlock spurred his horse on and Mycroft followed. It was a perfect day to hunt and just for a little while Sherlock could forget the stress of the palace and relax. He even sunk into his favourite day dream.

Dragons.

They were rumoured to have been gone from the world, gone forever. But Sherlock dreamed one day of seeing a dragon rise from fire, heaving into the air on wings black and leathery, screaming with revenge and fury, setting fire to the very stones of the castle....he smiled to himself.

What a sight...what a sight it must have been when dragons purified this world and made everything alright. Dragons. Sherlocks deep secret.

One day, he swore, he felt, he KNEW...one day, he would touch a dragon and fix everything.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade next!


	3. GOLD CLOAK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestarde the Gold Cloak is introduced.

Gregory Lestrade had been a Gold Cloak for ten years. The City guard of Kings Landing had been a good place to be after his wife and child had been killed. Meals and warmth, fine gold cloak, weapons training and the simple pleasures of doing a job that was important.

Or so he liked others to believe.

On the outside Lestrade seemed the same as the rest of the bone-head city guards. Drank too much, fought, laughed little and whored often. But it was merely a fascade. Lestrade used sleight of hand. He never drank ale, it was water in a dark cup so nobody would know. He never whored, merely took ladies to his bed and pretended to be too drunk to perform, paying them double for their trouble. The ladies never told of course. Not only was the pay good, but for them it was nice to have a night off every now and then. Lestrade got quite a virile reputation, having so many ladies demanding to be with Lestrade over other men. His garrison laid bets as to it being his gigantic manhood or his stamina that so attracted the whores, but it was, of course, only his kindness and deep purse.

Only the fighting was real. Nothing cheered him up more than a bare knuckle fight with another member of the guard. Harsh feelings and bloodied noses after could be quashed with a good-natured laugh and a mug or six of ale for the loser. And Greg never lost.

Lestrade smirked on the inside at his fellow guards, though his face was always impassive while on duty. He was cleverer than most of the guard put together. Clever enough to have them all fooled. He was no simple man. 

He was complex. 

He was dangerous.

He was waiting....

He was handsome and single enough to have the Commander of the Kingsguard, an annoyingly brisk and harsh man called Watt, set eyes on him for his daughter Hari. She was a nice enough girl, clever in her own way but not special. Not like her brother John, who had been before he had been sent to the Black watch. Now that boy had promise. So clever and blindingly pretty, and a Warg to boot. Lestrade wanted a man like that to his side. Nothing would ever replace his wife and daughter but a man to serve, a good man, would make him give up the idea of ever marrying again.

Also, Lestrade had eyes that saw more than most. Hari seemed enamoured with the Baratheons Cup Wench, a saucy girl called Clara with swinging hips and eyes that promised naughty doings under the furs at night. But not for a man, never for a man. Lestrade knew she was sweet on Hari, and Hari returned the favour. 

Lestrade figured if it all got too much he would marry Hari, get her with child to get her father to back off, and allow the two ladies to consort with each other. Maybe request Clara be a hand maiden for his new wife as a boon from Sigur. But that was a problem for another day.

This day was bright and Greg had drawn gate duty. This meant all he had to do was stand over the portcullis and glare all day, gloved hand on his sword, gold cape draped over his non dominant arm, shining in the sun. Winter was supposedly coming but Lestrade figured it was years off. He had heard that even the wall was weeping. How could that bode well for a close Winter?

And so he was situated well above when the Bastards returned on their horses, hawk perched majestically on the mute sons shoulder.

Lestrade had never had a conversation with either boy. Unlike the other sons of Sigur who ordered the guard about like they were handmaidens at their Royal beck and call, Dark Sherlock and Auburn Mycroft made polite requests through squires or stable boys. They treated the Guards with respect, and was to Sherlock any guard went to with any of the smaller problems that needed sorting. Food or ale restocking, new uniforms, and even squabbles and thefts. If Sherlock could not solve the problem himself he always new an urchin who knew someone who could. And before he went Mute and Addled, Mycroft was a silver tongued devil who could smooth over in court anything Gold Cloak related that needed the King or his Small Council to be made aware of.

Lestrade stared at Mycroft, knowing the boy could not see him watching. The boy grew taller and more handsome and thinner every day. He took after his mother, where Sherlock was very obviously of Sigurs blood. Two of the true blood children of Sigurs were also red of hair or Mycroft would have already been sent to a distant relative. The dark, curly hair was a signature of a Baratheon Child, the red of a Baratheon forefather.

Lestrade remembered the day Mycroft had stopped speaking. It was a terrible day that did not bare thinking of. He had never thrown up at the sight of blood and gore before, but this day nearly brought his meal forth. The last sound Mycroft had ever made was a weeping scream that Lestrade sometimes still heard in his dreams. That the boy was still alive at all was due to the sheer will of his brother in the first months after the horror. That the boy was able to mix in with people now was all due to Sherlock, who had been sent on a mysterious errand that day and had not been there to aid his brother. Not until many hours after. It had almost been too late. Lestrade had heard tell of Sherlock having to throw a rope around Mycroft to stop the red haired boy from dashing himself out of one of the tower windows and onto the flagstones below. He didn't know if that was the truth, but if anyone showed enough strength of character to pull a man from the abyss it was Sherlock.

Lestrade noted the stable boys hastening to grab the horses, and the Rooker holding his gloved arm to Squabbles. The boys had the blush of fresh air and a good ride to them and it made Lestrade happy that they had been able to escape, even for a little while. 

That he watched like a falcon as Mycroft dismounted was another of his little secrets. Added to his long list of secrets it made no difference. The boy was beautiful and Lestrade liked beauty. The Gods knew there was not enough in this harsh land. So look he did, and then turned to watch the sun as it descended behind the mountains. 

Later, he thought, he would have a meal and a bath, then sharpen his sword. 

He bide his time doing sums in his head until the numbers were too great even for him.

#


End file.
